Withdrawal
by FriendlyneighborhoodSatan
Summary: Part 3 in my 'No matter What' series. Sherlock and John have struck up an uneasy truce. And really, it was for the best. To not sleep together. To not see each other as often. They were miserable before. So why did they both feel like an addict suffering withdrawals? rated for slight language and suggestive stuff


Sherlock texted John, inviting him to come join him on a case. Ordinarily, this wouldn't have been odd, the detective had grown to hate doing cases without his blogger, but it was different now. The two had been keeping their distance, trying to maintain the fragile truce they'd struck. It was a simple text, reading

**I've got a case. Coming? –SH**

There was no 'this time' at the end, but I was implied. After all, Sherlock had invited John on three cases since _the incident_ and each time, the doctor had claimed he was too busy.

**I've sent a cab –SH **he typed. He waited anxiously for a reply, tapping his fingers on his leg, a nervous habit. The answer came quickly. **Wow, you're getting desperate, aren't you? –JW**

Sherlock could practically hear the teasing smirk in John's voice, a tone he hadn't heard in a long while.

**Yes –SH**

Sherlock replied. Again, he could imagine John as he was responding, the sigh of weary fondness and crumbling wall between them.

**Alright, alright, you win. I'll be there in 10 minutes –JW**

Sherlock smirked triumphantly, feeling a hot thrill rush through his spine at the thought of working with John again.

John arrived at his flat in less than five minutes, but it felt like a decade to them both. Finally, Sherlock heard familiar footsteps on the way up to 221B. He looked from his phone, which he'd been staring blankly since to John's last text. "Hello John." He muttered, usual cocky tone laced with apprehension. His ex-flatmate stood in the doorway, looking a bit awkward. "So, what's the case?" he asked, after a brief period of silence. "Don't know the details yet, Lestrade just texted me an hour ago. Triple homicide though, sounds fun." Sherlock replied, slowly returning to his normal level of arrogance. John laughed softly, looking at Sherlock with an odd sort of fondness. "I missed you, Sherlock." He said quietly. Sherlock looked at the ground, face flushing a light pink color. "I miss you too John." He said. Neither of them realized that Sherlock had used present tense. But in Sherlock's mind, John was still gone.

They arrived at Scotland Yard nearly 10 minutes after Lestrade's text, bursting into the DI's office. "I'm here." Sherlock announced unnecessarily. "What have you got?" he demanded. Lestrade sighed, gaze shifting from Sherlock to John, as if to deal with the sane one of the two. "John's back." He noted, mild surprise in his tone. Sherlock shot Lestrade a glare, as if warning him not to say anything. "Right, sorry. Um, we're not sure yet really, this is the third murder like this, but we've got no idea. Care to take a look?" he asked. The two old friends looked at each other. "_The game is on again." _Sherlock thought.

They wrapped up the case later that night, exhausted and dirty from crawling through underground tunnels. They sat in Scotland Yard, awaiting the questions and paperwork Lestrade most certainly had for them. Sherlock sat, merely inches away from John. He could feel the warmth of his body, and it was distracting him from the boredom of waiting.

Sherlock looked down at his lap, cheeks flushed slightly from the thrill of the chase, not to mention John pressed against him. He could barely look at his friend without flashes of memories. The way his skin tasted. The noises he made just before he came. The genius shook himself, as if he could physically clear the desire from his head, willing those types of thoughts away. They could only cause trouble.

John glanced at him questioningly, mentally asking if there was anything wrong. Sherlock shook his head, blushing a light pink. "It's nothing." He insisted. John looked away, pretending to believe him.

John looked at the ground, trying to block it all out. The guilt, for making Sherlock suffer all that, the need to just shove him up against a wall and snog him stupid, the anger at him for never having said anything before. "_Oh god, why do you miss him so much anyway?" _John thought. "_I mean, you're still having sex with Mary, so it's not just that you aren't getting laid. And you're working on the friendship so… what is it?" _he asked himself. Unconsciously, John scooted closer to Sherlock, so their thighs were pressed up against each other's. As he did so, Sherlock let out a shaky breath, trying to maintain control.

The tension could be cut with a knife, the both of them desperately trying to contain themselves, when Lestrade burst into the room. "Alright, just fill out the paperwork and you can leave." He said, throwing a packet of paper at the detective. Sherlock sighed, snapping out of his thoughts. "Pen?" he asked, holding his hand out. The DI rolled his eyes in exasperation, but placed a pen in Sherlock's hand anyway. He began writing on the packet, loopy scrawling print filling in the answers to standard procedure questions. He rolled his eyes, sighing dramatically. Boring. Paperwork is boring.

John looked around, eyes drifting back to Sherlock. "There's a bit of rock stuck in your collar" John told him. Sherlock looked up, turning to face him with a slight frown. "What?" he asked distractedly. John smirked. He pulled Sherlock in, brushing the rock from where it was stuck on his collar. Sherlock froze, face heating up as John's finger briefly brushed his neck. "I-I um, uh, thank you, I suppose." He stuttered, not really caring how obvious he was being. Lestrade silently cracked up in the back round, observing the scene between the two. He couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for Sherlock. It had to be hard, being in love with your straight, married best friend. And everyone seemed to notice it but John himself. He looked at Sherlock, giving him a sympathetic smile. The genius glared.

"Done." He said, throwing the packet of paper at the DI. "C'mon John, let's leave. I can't stand this much /stupid/ in one building, it's disrupting my thought process." He said, standing up. He grabbed John's hand, dragging him out of Scotland Yard.

They didn't have to wait long for a cab. They climbed in, trying to keep as far away from each other as physics would allow, for the sake of control. "221B Baker Street." John said to the cabbie, not pausing to realize his mistake. Sherlock smirked, noticing immediately what John had said.

They hopped out of the cab as soon as Baker Street was in sight, paying the man quickly, so neither of them had to suffer being trapped in that small a space with one another for longer than necessary. As they burst into 221B, John took his coat off, setting it on the kitchen table. He began to walk back up to his bedroom when it hit. "I don't live here anymore." He said sounding almost bewildered by the revelation. Sherlock gave him a small smile, though there was a hint of hurt flickering in his eyes. "No, you don't. I was going to remind you, but I figured you'd catch on eventually." He said. John sighed exasperatly. "You let me come all the way here? Great, now I have to find another cab." He complained. Sherlock looked down nervously, barely getting the courage to make the suggestion. "O-or you could- you could stay here tonight. I'm sure Mary wouldn't mind." He said.

John looked at him, slight frown gracing his features. "I have alcohol." He said, giving John a slight smirk. John couldn't help grinning at that. "Why would you have alcohol? I've only ever seen you drunk /once/." He pointed out. Sherlock's eyes dropped to the ground, the smile slowly melting off his face. "I um, I stocked up. The night after the wedding. I just- I don't know, it was stupid." He muttered.

John studied him, joking manner draining from his eyes as he realized the implications of what Sherlock had said. "Oh. I- I'm sorry for… all that. I- if I would've known I wouldn't have made you come." He said. Sherlock gave him a wry smile. "Oh please John, I used to get high and offer Lestrade head in exchange for letting me on crime scenes, I can handle getting a little drunk." He said dismissively. John's eyebrows shot up at he stared at Sherlock incredulously. "You _what_?" John asked. Sherlock blushed, realizing exactly what he'd just said. "Nothing. It was nothing." He said. "Are you going to stay and drunk or not?" he asked, changing the subject before John could ask again.

John sighed, shrugging his shoulders. "I'll stay I guess but, god Sherlock, I'm too tire to get drunk right now. I haven't slept in like three days so I think I'll just head to bed." He said, giving Sherlock a slightly apologetic look. Sherlock gave him a small smile. "Alright." he said, sounding tired himself. "There are sheets on your bed, I put them on after you found out about Mary." He confessed. John winced, turning to trudge up the stairs.

Sherlock sat in his chair, eyes squeezed shut. He hadn't moved in hours, John had been asleep for a while now, but the detective couldn't rest. He had to _think_. He mentally analyzed the way John had interacted with him, coming to a critical conclusion. _He wants it to happen again._

Sherlock sighed, leaning his head over the back of his chair while he thought. John was taking over his mind palace, their current situation occupying his rational mind. It needed to happen again. Sherlock wasn't going to give up the tiny piece of John that had been his, but it was so difficult. On one hand, he couldn't stand the idea of John beating himself up over their brief affair, and felt it would be better to be just friends if John couldn't love him like he wanted. But on the other hand, John was so utterly addictive. His lips. His smile. His comments on Sherlock's deductions. Every corner of his mind palace was obsessing, demanding more more more. Sherlock swallowed thickly, irrational desires completely overtaking him.

He stood up quietly, not wanting to wake his sleeping best friend. Sherlock walked past his own bedroom, walking up the stairs swiftly and quietly. He slipped into John's room, closing the door behind him. He crawled under the covers as silently as he could. "Sherlock?" John asked sleepily. The genius froze, eyes widening. "I-I'm sorry John. I didn't mean to wake you." He stammered, getting up from the bed. John pulled him back down. "You're late. I expected you to crawl up here hours ago." He said, voice cracking with sleep. Sherlock's fear morphed into relieved shock. "You don't mind then?" he asked quietly. "Not particularly." He replied.

"Does that mean we can shag again?" Sherlock asked, voice muffled by pillows. "I think so, yeah." John replied. Sherlock sighed, curling back up in the bed. "I love you." He muttered, talking more to himself than John. "I know." He replied tiredly.


End file.
